


fragments

by fluffysfics



Category: Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Missing Scene, Past Relationships, Pining, lightly feral Thirteen, set during Spyfall, the TARDIS is a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25206991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/pseuds/fluffysfics
Summary: Right after hearing the Master’s message about the destruction of Gallifrey, the Doctor means to seek him out. At the very least, she means to go find her human friends again.Instead, she finds herself in her bedroom, listening to the Master’s words on repeat and getting lost in the past.(Set before the final scene of Spyfall Part Two)
Relationships: The Doctor | Theta Sigma/The Master | Koschei (Doctor Who: Academy Era), Third Doctor/The Master (Delgado), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan), Twelfth Doctor/Missy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	fragments

Despair, the Doctor finds, is not an easy emotion to get rid of. It’s also not the only one swirling around in the dark cloud that seems to encapsulate her entire body, pressing her down into her bed, making even the slightest of movements feel monumentally difficult. 

She’s angry. Anger at the Master is nothing new, though. 

She’s also curious. Not the good sort of curiosity that drives her to poke holes in things and open doors she shouldn’t, but the sort that eats away at her insides until it feels like she’s nothing but a great, yawning pit of unanswered questions. 

There’s a tiny part of her, too, that’s still pleased that he isn’t dead. She hates that part. She’s not thinking about it. She’s _not_. 

Emotions were a lot easier to deal with when she was better at expressing them, the Doctor thinks, and she lifts a listless hand and presses play on the Master’s hologram message again. She’s memorised every word, every flicker and twitch and blink of the recorded message. 

_Why would I make it easy for you? It wasn’t for me_. 

It’s not easy for her, either, the Doctor thinks, and she wonders just how badly the Master was hurt by his discovery in order to justify destroying an entire planet. _Their_ entire planet. It’s a lot, even for him. 

Part of her can’t let go of the fact that they were friends, once. She used to trust his judgement more than anything. If he thought a planet needed blowing up, then surely it _did_. 

She’s older now. Perfectly capable of developing her own sense of morals, one that doesn’t include blowing up planets, thank you very much. 

So why does part of her still insist that he _must_ have been right?

——

“Koschei, I can’t get this _accursed_ thing to work.” 

The pale, dark-haired young man on the next table over looks up from his own neat project, casting an eye over Theta’s messy workbench. 

“Of course you can’t, dearest. It looks like something exploded on your desk. And you really should tie your hair back, or you’ll set it on fire again.” He sweeps over, untying a ribbon from around his wrist and looping it around Theta’s mess of blond curls. 

Theta doesn’t object. He leans back into Koschei’s touch, snuggling against him in a way that would have scandalised any of their Academy tutors. Koschei lets him, for a few seconds at least, before drawing away to study the mess of parts now in front of them both. 

“What are you actually building, Theta?” 

“It’s a, um...it detects artron energy particles, so you can see where TARDISes have taken off and landed recently. What I called it doesn’t matter.” 

Koschei raises an eyebrow. Theta gives in almost immediately. 

“...It’s a timey-wimey detector.” 

“You sure it’s not just broken out of spite because you gave it a stupid name?” 

“Don’t be _mean_.” Theta pouts at him. “ _Please_ help me fix it?” 

“I do like it when you beg, dearest.” Koschei grins, predatory, and Theta blushes almost as red as his robes. “But you can save that for the bedroom. I’ll help.” 

“I’ll do _whatever_ you want in the bedroom if you can fix it for me,” Theta says, delighted, and already knowing that Koschei will be able to help. 

He can trust his best friend with anything. Koschei is wiser, smarter, more logical; if he says something is right, then 99.98% of the time, it is. That other 0.02% pertains to questions about his own attractiveness, because Koschei repeatedly denies the fact that he’s incredibly handsome, and Theta just won’t stand for that. 

He slips an arm around Koschei’s waist, watching his best friend prod at the machine he’d built, and eagerly dashing off to fetch parts when they were required. 

He’d bring Koschei the moons and stars if he asked, Theta thinks. 

——

The Doctor absently plays the recording two more times whilst she’s lost in memory. She hugs a pillow to her chest, half-wishing she could erase all those happy times from her mind, wishing she could see him as a villain like everyone else does. 

She pauses the hologram message, gazing into the Master’s eyes. They’re warm, and brown, and they shine with the sparkle of tears that he’s not letting fall. 

She wants to press her lips to his closed eyelids, brush the tears away from his cheeks with her thumbs. She wants intimacy, wants it with _him_ , because everyone else in the whole damn universe sets her nerves on edge whenever they get too close, but the Master... he’s familiar, he’s hers. 

Hating herself for indulging in a daydream where they might get close enough to touch, the Doctor presses play on the recording again. 

_I had to make them pay for what I discovered_. 

What had been so terrible? What could make a creature who killed for his own amusement so disgustedly angry that he burned a whole planet to wipe the evidence of it from history? 

What did the Master care about enough to destroy _anything_ for, even the things that mattered most to him?

The Doctor has a terrible feeling that she knows the answer to that question already. 

——

“Quite a lovely night for a party, isn’t it, my dear Doctor?” 

The Doctor straightens sharply from the balcony, running a hand through thick white curls and smoothing down an artfully ruffled shirt. That had caught him off-guard, but ever-professional, he doesn’t let it show. 

“Master. One year, UNIT will be able to hold a Christmas party without your untimely interference, I’m sure.” 

“Never, my dear. Never.” The Master flashes the smallest hint of a smile at him, taking a sip from a brandy glass in his hand. The Doctor suspects that he stole both the glass and the brandy from the Brigadier’s private office, but he doesn’t pass comment. For now. 

“Dare I ask what dastardly scheme you’re here to embroil me in, my good man?” The Doctor clasps his hands behind his back, rather wishing that he had a drink of his own. He’d left it inside when he’d popped out for some fresh air. 

“Such a cynic, Doctor. No. No schemes.” The Master steps a little closer. “I’ve been home, you know.” 

“Ah.” The Doctor closes his eyes, pictures the planet that he ran away from years ago. Part of him longs to feel red dust between his fingers again, the warmth of two suns on his upturned face. “They’re muddling along whilst I’m in my exile, I presume?” 

“Barely, as ever.” The Master offers a soft chuckle of amusement. “I did make your case whilst I was there, my dear Doctor. I threatened to blow up the Panopticon if they didn’t allow you to travel again. I know how you miss it.” 

“And _did_ you blow up the Panopticon?” The Doctor tilts his head, wondering if he should be concerned. 

“No. They threw me off the planet. Quite literally.” 

“Ah. Well. I’m oddly flattered that you would risk such a thing for me.” He reaches out, plucks the glass of brandy from the Master’s hand, and takes an ill-advisedly large gulp. The liquid burns as it goes down. The Doctor needs the feeling, he thinks, to try and cope with the reality he’s living. This strange...loving rivalry he’s got going on with his oldest friend. 

“I won’t make that mistake again,” the Master says, and both of them know that he doesn’t mean it. 

——

Who, or what, is the Timeless Child? The Doctor has played that particular part of the message a hundred more times than the rest of it, and still, understanding evades her. It’s like chasing a plastic bag in the wind, gusts snatching the truth further from her desperate hands every time she makes a grab for it. 

Despair coils around her guts again as she loops those few seconds of the message, and a sharp headache right in her temples pounds along with her hearts. 

She glares at the hologram, the pain in her head making her vision fuzz over with red. There’s a flash- a lonely, dark-skinned child in golden ceremonial robes, towers on an unfamiliar planet- and then it’s gone again. 

The headache gets worse the more she lets him speak, and the Doctor groans, blind self-preservation making her fumble for the communication device, snatch it up and frantically wind the message back to the beginning. 

She slumps on the bed, breathing hard. No matter how many times she tortures herself like that, she never gets more than that brief flash of memory. Is it memory? She’s never been anywhere like that before, never seen that child. 

And yet, it feels maddeningly familiar. 

_When I said someone did that, obviously I meant I did_. 

The Doctor groans. 

“Why’d you do it, Koschei? You were getting better, I _know_ you were. You weren’t gonna burn planets anymore. That...that can’t all have been a lie.” 

——

The Doctor sits quietly in an armchair at the edge of the vault, and watches a tear slip from Missy’s eye. His fingers twitch; in their childhood, he wouldn’t have hesitated to brush it away. But now, he clasps his hands together, makes himself remain still. 

“I hear them...at night,” she says, her hand shaking as she moves to wipe away her own tear. If this is a lie, it’s a convincing one. “Their screams. Doctor, it never _ends_ -“ 

“No. It doesn’t.” He isn’t sure whether to lace his tone with sympathy or sternness, and his frown deepens. “Missy, I’m not- if you think I’m going to let you out early, then-“

She deflates in her chair. The Doctor thinks for a moment that he’s caught her out in a lie, but- no. She looks...betrayed. Anguish crosses her face, heartbreak, and then she slips a calm mask over it all. She’s always been too good at that. 

“When did you forget how to trust, hm, dearie? Sure _you_ couldn’t use a few hundred years in here until you pick _that_ up again?” 

“Missy,” he tries, and then cuts himself off. He rubs a hand across his face, tired. Every time he visits her, he ends up tired, but he won’t ever stop. He cares too much. “Missy. Given our history, I think you should be—“

“Ach. Well. I’m _no’_ what you _think_ I should be, am I?” 

Her accent comes out when she’s angry. It’s an unfairly attractive habit, but then again, she has a lot of those. The Doctor is better at ignoring them than he used to be. 

He stares at her, and wonders if he’s being too harsh. The Master has always been a brilliant actor, but something about Missy makes him think that this is real. 

“Okay,” he says, and he leans forward and rests one hand on her knee. Carefully, as though she might break. Or maybe as though he will. “Fine. You’re not lying. I’m sorry. Tell me more.” 

Missy is quiet for a long moment. The Doctor has never seen her look so vulnerable; she’s usually so _careful_ , never letting even an inch of her sharp-tongued poise slip. 

“I can’t think about the smoke without remembering the screams. I used to _love_ it, and now-“ She presses her hands to her face, but she doesn’t look any more composed when she lifts her head again. “I want to stop. I want to be better.” 

If this is true, then it’s progress. Real progress. The Doctor takes a breath, squeezes her knee. It’s as close as he’ll willingly come to a hug, these days. There was _someone_ that he used to be able to hug, but his memory aches every time he tries to recall her. 

“You _can_ stop, Missy,” he promises, holding her gaze, seeing her eyes fill with tears and flicker with a desperate hope. “We’ve got a thousand years here. I’ll help you. Every day. I’m not giving up on you.” 

——

Pain and guilt wrack the Doctor’s body as she remembers their previous selves, how hopeful they’d both been. If only it had lasted. If only the Master hadn’t betrayed her. If only, _if only_ \- 

She grabs the communicator, and hurls it at the wall with a scream that leaves her throat raw and her ears ringing. 

It sparks, and a distorted picture of the Master slurs the words ‘tell you more’, and then flickers out of existence. Cold horror fills the Doctor as she realises what she’s done in her fit of rage. She’s just as bad as him, sometimes. 

She leaps out of bed for the first time in days, legs shaky as she scoops up the fragments and sprints to the console room. It’s been too long; she’s out of breath by the time she reaches it, dumping the pile of scraps onto her ship’s console. 

“Fix it,” the Doctor demands. 

Her TARDIS‘ hum swells with a discordant note, unpleasant and jarring enough to put her teeth on edge. _No_. 

“Fine,” she snaps, jabbing desperately at buttons, pulling levers. “You record everything that happens on here. Give me a new recording of the message. I need it. Please. Please, I need it, _please_...” 

A shower of sparks erupts from the console, and the flight lever grinds downwards without her permission. They’re wrenched off into the Time Vortex so roughly that the Doctor is hurled to the floor. 

She scrambles back up, smacking at stabilisers until she can at least stay on her feet and grab the info screen. 

They’re going to Sheffield, 2020. 

“No!” The Doctor frantically tries to change their course, force some kind of override, but nothing works. “Don’t make me,” she begs, and then immediately hates the sound of her own voice saying it. 

As they come in to land, she folds her arms on the console, resting her head on top of them. How many days has she been lying in bed? After seeing Gallifrey, after hearing the Master’s message, she’d _meant_ to do something about it. Track him down, somehow. And then her feet had walked her to her bedroom, and she’d been there ever since. 

Until now. 

“I don’t want to face them,” she mumbles into her arms. The TARDIS makes a noise that’s half sympathy, and half a firmness that’s as hard as stone. She’s not going to relent. The Doctor _is_ going to go pick up her companions. 

At the very least, her ship lets her stay slumped over the console for a while, trying unsuccessfully to compose herself, to pull together the willpower to go outside and willingly talk to humans. 

Then, there’s a knock at the door. Of course. 

Before the Doctor can get up and answer it herself, the TARDIS flings the door wide open, and she’s suddenly having to straighten up, smooth down her tangled hair as best she can. 

Yaz is standing there, and just behind her are Ryan and Graham. 

Okay, she thinks to herself. No more pining over the Master. She has companions to deal with. 

Still, she flips a few switches on the console, setting her TARDIS to scan the whole universe for any trace of him, and ignoring her ship’s grumbled protest. 

And then she steps forward, all radiant smiles and a bounciness that’s utterly, _utterly_ fake, and she gets ready to be the Doctor again. 

**Author's Note:**

> well, this may be the most tags I’ve ever put on a fic! hope you enjoyed, comments and kudos appreciated as always <3


End file.
